


lay down your burdens.

by LIPSservice



Category: The 100 (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Smut, Healing Through Orgasm, How to Be a Supportive Coworker 101, Polygamy is Neat, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 18:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12894072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LIPSservice/pseuds/LIPSservice
Summary: Alternately titled: "Give Paige Turco Happy Things Please For The Love of God."





	lay down your burdens.

 

When she stops in the doorway of his rented townhouse to dig through her purse for her spare key, she can hear music.  
  
It’s low, heavily muffled by the walls; some sort of acoustic jam, from what she can tell. She laughs to herself, though, as she realizes she can also _just_ hear the easy tenor of his voice carelessly singing along over it.  
  
Of course he is.  
  
But that’s when she freezes.  
  
This isn’t anything new. She’s been here so many times before, standing in this particular doorway at this particular time of night. The warm aroma of simmering chiles that wafts out from inside is one that she’s breathed in dozens of times. The doormat, embroidered to simply read “Aloha”, bears a stain in one corner from coffee that she herself spilled in a morning’s rush to get to set. Even the stubborn door itself - she already knows she’ll have to tug hard on the handle while turning the key to get it to open.  
  
Everything about this moment is familiar, is predictable, is easy.  
  
And _that’s_ what’s new.  
  
The revelation crashes over her like a bag of bricks, with all the weight and violence of the last four months: the person she's had to be for her son, the person she's had to be for her friends and family - and, as of  this past week, the person she has to be for the sake of the show. She is a _professional actress_ \- she muses with some pride - far be it from her to be offended by having to be something dishonest.  
  
But there is no “have to be” here.  
  
And so, with sweaty hair blindly pulled into a messy bun, ratty t-shirt thrown over jeans, she swallows down her reverie and relaxes her shoulders. Her fingers finally find her keys, jangling at the very bottom of her bag; and with a deep breath, she lets herself in.  
  
She quickly surveys the main floor for any sight of him - an open design allows her to easily spot his shaggy mop of hair as he stands in the living room at the rear of the house, intently clicking through channels on the TV.  
  
“Hey,” she calls out over the music, closing the door behind her and kicking off her flats. “Sorry I’m late.”  
  
His head turns, his stern concentration instantly softening to a twinkling smile at the sight of her.  
  
“Come on in,” he beckons. He nods back toward the kitchen before returning his attention to the TV. “I’ve already had my share, but there's some rice and anticuchos on the stove. Should still be warm. You can help yourself.”  
  
“Sounds great, thanks,” she replies, setting down her bag and making her way towards the small kitchen, situated to the right of a large island that marks the center of the main floor. To the left of it is an attempt at a dining room; with a table largely unused save for visits from his kids. The table’s surface is currently serving as a desk - she smiles at the chaos of multicolored scripts and sides it’s currently buried beneath, every margin and empty space plagued with his scribbled notes.  
  
But the kitchen, on the other hand, though small, gets more than its fair share of appropriate use. The black marble countertops proudly display his prized selection of spices, oils, and top-of-the-line knives; every appliance, from fridge to stove to state-of-the-art coffee-maker, shines with brushed steel. She reaches into one of the mahogany cupboards to grab a plate, eyeing the rice and kebabs awaiting her on the stove with an enthusiasm that alarms her - when was the last time she’d eaten?  
  
“How did the re-shoots go?” he asks mindlessly, still focused on the TV while she spoons a heap of rice onto her plate.  
  
She huffs a dark laugh. His head turns.  
  
“Aaron's still not happy with it,” she answers, “but at least we’ve got _something_ in the bag, now.”  
  
He nods, understanding.  
  
On the first day of shooting, they’d tried to nail down a large scene of Abby working to train a new team of Grounder medics in the bunker. The dialogue was technical, the blocking complex, and the camera moves difficult - nothing unusual for a season opener sequence. But her mouth couldn't form the right words, and her body repeatedly betrayed how well she knew to “please make sure you hit your marks, Paige”. With twenty extras watching, she’d withered down to humiliation embodied as Aaron graciously whispered to the 1st AD to schedule a re-shoot for the following Sunday.  
  
“Well then,” he starts, finally turning the music off and setting down the remote. She watches, plate in hand, as he purposefully joins her in the kitchen, making a beeline for the small winerack in the corner. He considers it for a moment, humming as he decides on a sizeable Chardonnay and pulls it out to present it to her. “Bottle or glass?”  
  
She smiles.  
  
“Glass, thank you.”  
  
“I wouldn't judge.”  
  
“A glass will do _just fine_ ,” she laughs. “Do I look that bad?”  
  
“Of course not,” he appeals, but eyes her with mock appraisal as he works to unscrew the cork. “If you want to use my shower, though…”  
  
She smacks him across the arm, laughter betraying her feigned offense as his eyes twinkle with mischief. With a satisfying pop, he frees the cork and sets it down on the counter.    
  
But as her laughter subsides, she finds its left behind something exposed; unchecked. She tries to straighten her posture, brighten her eyes, and train her lips into a smile  - but it's too late. He’s seen it.  He turns to face her, and she doesn’t have to glance long at him to know the exact expression of seriousness and inquiry he’s now levelling her with.  
  
“Please don’t,” she asserts quietly, intent as she plates a kebab on top of her rice.  
  
“Paige...” he begins, searching out her gaze. She stares, pointedly, at the clock on the stove.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“It was one bad day,” he offers, reaching to stroke a hand up her back, landing with a gentle grip on her opposite shoulder. The touch radiates warmth beneath her skin. “You’re damn good, but that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to have bad days.”  
  
She chews anxiously at her bottom lip as she feels a heavy, dark emotion begin to bubble up within.  
  
“I know. I do know that. They just…” she sighs, finally surrendering: “They don’t make it easier.”  
  
He nods.  
  
“I know.”  
  
With that, he pulls her in, and she eagerly abandons her plate on the counter to wrap her arms around his waist, reaching upward to clutch desperately at the strong muscles of his shoulders. The cotton of his maroon t-shirt is soft against her cheek as he presses her closer, gently cupping the back of her head. She breathes him in; the sweet musk of his cologne mixing with the residual sharpness of spice from cooking to create something intoxicating and utterly mollifying. His arms are strong and secure and completely encircle her; his chest is broad and warm and alive.  
  
It’s not just food she’s starved for, she thinks.  
  
He presses a kiss into her hair; she melts closer into him.  
  
“And you are _always_ beautiful,” he murmurs with an emphatic squeeze. “Even if you still smell like that awful new setting spray Alannah’s been using.”   
  
With that, the moment breaks, and she laughs as they part.   
  
“I don’t even think a shower would get that out,” she muses, returning to her plate. “I’m afraid you’re stuck.”      
  
“I’ll live,” he jokes with a wink. “What’s a little chemical warfare compared to nuclear apocalypse?”   
  
She smirks at the familiar joke, then nods towards the TV, presently projecting an ad for Febreeze. “Dundee playing?”  
  
“No, that was last night. They annihilated Brechin, of course,” he answers, and fills her glass nearly to the brim with the wine. She opens her mouth to protest, but quickly resigns herself to it as he assuredly passes it her way. “I’ve got something recorded for us.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
He quirks a dramatic eyebrow at her, then, adopting an approximation of an old-fashioned trans-atlantic accent as he quotes:  
  
“ _Promise me one thing: don't take me home until I'm drunk - very drunk, indeed_.”  
  
She huffs a laugh, raising her oversized glass towards him.  
  
“Well, where’s yours, then?”  
  
He nods - _there's an idea -_ and indeed, pulls out a glass for himself. She glares as he initially fills it to a much more reasonable level than hers - then, conceding as he catches her expectant expression, tops it up to match.  
  
“Breakfast at Tiffany's,” he offers as an answer to her unspoken question. “It was on this afternoon, and I think it’s time I made an honest woman out of you.”   
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“It’s not proper to claim you’re an Audrey fan if you haven’t seen it, my love.”   
  
“But Roman Holid--”  
  
“Doesn’t count. Everyone’s seen it.”  
  
“Everyone’s seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s!”  
  
“Everyone but _you_ ,” he points out with finality. “Saving you some embarrassment, Paige.”

“How kind.”

“I thought so.”

Rolling her eyes, she takes a sip of her wine, grabs cutlery, and heads over to the couch. She’s careful to set the glass on a coaster on the coffee table before folding her legs neatly beneath her and claiming her spot in the middle of the sofa; using her lap as a table. He’s not far behind, plopping himself down at the end and draping his arm comfortably along the backrest behind her head. He sets his own glass down on the end table next to him and picks up the remote, pulling up his list of recordings on the screen and scrolling to find the one he wants.

She chokes out a laugh at the sight of one of the larger collections.

“Big Brother? Really?”

“Don't you judge,” he argues with a small smile, still focused on the screen. “At least I don't have every season of The Bachelorette on DVD.”

“I only have the one!”

“Still too many.”

“Do I get to use the Tower of Veto on that?”  
  
“ _Power,”_ he corrects, “It’s the Power of Veto.”

“Right,” she admits, laughing at her flubbed reference. “Well, do I?”

“As the head of this household, I’m going to have to say no,” he declares with a cheeky grin as he keeps scrolling. “Ah! There we are.”

Victorious, he presses play and sets the remote down on the table. As the opening music gently fills the room, he reaches for his glass and holds it out to her. “Cheers.”

She grabs her own from the coffee table, clinking it gently against his.

“Cheers,” she responds. There's a swelling of something warm and bright in her chest, then, as he grins mirthfully at her; she feels her cheeks flush. She hurries to hide it by joining him as he drinks; albeit perhaps taking a slightly fuller swig.

But somewhere in her embarrassment rises a sudden, almost violent jolt of indignation - it's an old feeling, one she’d prided herself on... before. It’s vibrant and familiar, and she wonders that she's let herself go so long without what feels staggeringly like a fundamental thread in the fabric of her being: there is _so much_ to love about her life.

And she wants to _let_ herself love it.

It's a simple, saccharine thought, but she has never been one to shy away from such - not until lately, that is. Not until the answer to “how are you doing” (as everyone is so prone to asking these days) became less of a sincere inquiry so much as an assurance to the asker that she really _meant it_ when she said divorce was hell.

(As if the fire set to one bridge should bring her whole world to burn.)

She meets his gaze again as they set their glasses down, levelling him with a steady, defiant expression. He catches it quickly, and turns to her with gentle curiosity.

“What?”

She smiles softly.

“I’m just… I’m really glad I’m here.”

“Mm,” he nods slowly, appreciatively. He drops his arm from the backrest to wrap warmly around her shoulders, drawing her closer to him. She stays like that, nestling against the warmth of him and readjusting the plate on her lap as he gives her a squeeze. “I’m glad you're here, too.”

With that, they turn their attention towards the TV, and she finally digs into her meal as images of a serene, early-morning Fifth Avenue lull her into the world of the film.

She finishes eating sometime around the part where the enigmatic Ms. Golightly has crept into the author’s room; she leans forward to set her plate down on the coffee table next to her glass. By the time she sits back, Holly has gotten into the man’s bed.

_“We’re friends, that’s all. We are friends, aren't we?”_

She leans back, tucking herself beneath his waiting arm once more. She reaches up and takes his hand into hers, pulling his arm tighter around her. She smiles up at him.

“Thanks for dinner.”

“Not too spicy?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

“You’re dangerously close to growing as a person, Paige.”

She hums at the joke. Suddenly, a response bubbles up inside her that, perhaps, tastes a bit too much like wine - but it's past her lips before she has any mind to stop it:

“Don’t worry,” she begins. And then: “There are other ways to make me sweat.”

She’s deliciously satisfied with herself at the tease - until she realizes he’s gone completely quiet.

She frowns as, instead, she feels him stiffen, his hand limp in hers. His heartbeat accelerates rapidly beneath where her head is resting against his shoulder - the only thing keeping her from shrinking away in embarrassment at the bold quip. But was it _really_ so bold?

Curiously, she glances up at him, and finds that he's grown instantly serious and focused on the movie; he swallows heavily under her gaze.

Her frown deepens as she finally turns back towards the TV. Her attention fails to leave the man next to her, however - navigating the shades of grey in their relationship was never something she’d been inept at before. Had she finally tripped over a line he didn't want her to cross? Had that line always been there? If not, what exactly had she done differently from all of their nights together before?

Her frustration and confusion blossoms into defiance, and she shifts closer against him, dropping her hand from his to lay it across his stomach. She starts small; her thumb working light little circles into the fabric of his shirt. He’s notably still - but makes no move to discourage her. So, she slowly, cautiously allows the intimate movement to grow, her fingertips now trailing delicate, rhythmic figure-eights against the soft cotton.

Hesitant to push it any further - catching a slight furrow in his brow, his expression all concentration - she remains in this simple, chaste mode for a long time.

But then suddenly his stomach bounces with laughter.  
  
“That looks like Eliza at the last wrap,” he jokes, nodding at a shot in the midst of a party scene, of a drunk woman laughing to herself in the mirror one moment and sobbing hysterically the next.   
  
She smiles.   
  
“You laugh because you weren’t tasked with getting her home.”   
  
“Do you think your Uber rating will ever recover?”   
  
“Maybe one day.”   
  
“Mm.”   
  
He smiles down at her briefly and gives her shoulder a sympathetic rub. The amiable shift in atmosphere gives her an opening, and she leaps through it; giving a satisfied sigh before slinging her arm comfortably and completely around his waist.

A memory sears through her mind like lightning, then: an open bar, a grimy bathroom stall, and her blood running hot with whiskey and the feel of his hands on her thighs.

_The wrap party._

Had things really been so different, then? It wasn't like she hadn't confided every ugly detail to him. Secrecy wasn't a language either of them was proficient in, nor had they ever had any desire to be. He’d known perfectly well that things weren't exactly headed for happily-ever-after when he’d started shamelessly pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses up her neck with their boss brown-nosing network execs only a few feet away.

Ghosts of sensation shiver through her skin at the memory. She can feel her eyes brightening with glimmers of desire...

Her hand snakes beneath his shirt.

“Paige…”

His voice is low - a warning. Or was it a challenge?

The goosebumps she can feel arising beneath her touch seem to argue for the latter, so she trails her fingers back, following the seam of his shirt as she grazes over his hipbone. She slowly finds her way to the button of his jeans and stays there, idly toying with the coarse swath of dark hair trailing underneath. He groans as her nails lightly graze against his skin, and she almost smiles -

“ _Paige_ ,” he repeats - inarguably a warning this time. The sharpness stills her, stunned as she looks up at him. He looks... pained. Her heart sinks. Dully, he continues, not making eye contact: “Please pay attention to the movie.”

She takes a deep breath. Recoiling, she sits up, reaching for her wine glass. It isn't _nearly_ full enough for her, now.

His arm retreats to the backrest.

The flush in her cheeks burns hotter, the mixture of wine and desire now mutating into a heavy, consuming embarrassment. Her stomach churns as she drinks down the wine, humiliation burning behind her eyes to threaten the onset of tears. She grits her teeth to hold them back.

His command turns out, of course, to be rather ironic - there isn't much that she could have told anyone about the latter half of the film. Her mind’s capacities were entirely dedicated to not making a further fool of herself, keeping strict control of every muscle lest a single one should rebel and render her unforgivable. She was utterly torn apart by warring tides of shame and outrage, both tainted with the bitter taste of despair.

Was this another thing she’d lost in the divorce?

She swallows down the final scenes - preaching about “wild things” and self-inflicted cages with boldfaced naivety - with no small amount of bitterness… and even more wine. She's absolutely buzzing by the time the credits roll, the graceful notes of “Moon River” filling the room.

But then they keep rolling.

With the movie decidedly over, she finally turns toward her host… and finds that he’s fallen asleep.

His head is lolling away from her, his mouth hanging open just a little with his slow, even breathing. The tiniest hint of a snore edges each inhale. It’s always been part of his charm that the little boy inside the extraordinarily gifted actor, director, advocate, writer, so on and so forth, has never truly gone away - and he’s here, precious and untroubled, in Ian’s sleeping form.  

_One of these days_ , she thinks with a sigh, _he’ll actually let me be mad at him._

But this is not that day, and the end of the credits is quickly approaching, threatening to jolt him awake as the TV returns to its live broadcasting. So, she scans for where he's put the remote - the end table. It’s a risk, reaching across his slumbering body, but one she decides to take anyway. It might, after all, give her a chance to slip away into the night, nursing her wounds in private.

But, despite all her years as a dancer, her coordination fails her. Reaching with her whole torso over his, balancing only on a hand planted awkwardly beside his legs, she falters - and falls right into him.

He groans as he awakes.

“Sorry,” she offers sheepishly, grimacing.

She tries to collect herself, and quickly grabs the remote to complete her mission. With a click, the screen goes black, and the room goes silent. She discards the remote and turns to face him - very nearly bumping her nose against his. He’s so close, too close, and the hand that she’d had planted has instinctively come to rest on his shoulder in her effort to regain composure. She swallows as she feels her eyes steal a glance at his lips, only an inch or so from hers.

“I, uh… I didn't want to wake you.”

Still barely aware of his surroundings, eyes heavy-lidded, he smirks.

“Nicely done.”

“I thought so,” she jokes lamely.

Then, with the hand he’d been resting on the armrest, he reaches up to brush her bangs away from her face. It's such an easy, practiced movement, so quick that she's not even sure he's aware he's done it. His fond smile suggests that he might; she’s loath to put a halt to the thrill that courses through her at the thought.

“Did you like the movie?” he asks.

“I did,” she answers, somewhat dishonestly. “Thank you.”

She’s profoundly aware that they haven't moved from their awkward position, and even moreso that he seems perfectly nonplussed by her being sprawled on top of him like this. Whatever bolt had gotten jammed in the wheels of their relationship only moments ago had been nudged out of place in his sleep, it seems.

And she has never been one to give up so easily.   
  
So, she kisses him.

It’s a small, almost-friendly thing. Appreciative. A featherlight meeting of lips that wouldn’t dare ask for more.   
  
Except that the moment her lips leave his, all of her shame and anger and confusion floods from her body to make way for a hurricane of desperation, and every atom of her existence is suddenly crying out for _more, more, more_ . So, with both hands, she pulls him to her once more and kisses him like she’s been drowning and he’s the free, open air. He lets out a small stunned sound at the attack, but his lips are accommodating enough that she sits herself up confidently, readying herself to straddle him. With a practiced, careful swing of her leg over his hips, she’s there, and she feels his hands come to her waist.   
  
_Finally_.

Only, the little teases of her tongue against his lips have yet to have their requests for entry answered. He’s barely moved - it’s as if she’s a tsunami crashing down on a deserted island. She tries to tell herself it’s just been a while, that he’s just warming up. But it doesn't bypass her that his hands on her waist occupy that space without motivation. They’re there because it’s what they do - what they _have_ done. Even as he begins to slowly trail them upward, it’s not a thrill she feels but the shadow of apprehension, but she needs this so _badly_ that she just keeps going, and going, because maybe he’ll let her drive this thing as far as she needs, and maybe there’s enough left in him that knows her, that could forgive her, that could still want her…  
  
His hands reach their destination. He presses gently against her jaw, tearing himself away.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. His hands drop to her shoulders.“I… I can’t.”  
  
“Don’t do this,” she quietly pleads, and she hates that she can’t help how pathetic she sounds. “Ian, please.”  
  
“No, I…” he asserts gently. “This isn’t right.”   
  
“Not right?” she laughs in disbelief. “Ian, we’ve been through this, it’s fine-”  
  
“It _was_ fine.”   
  
Anger surges through her, and she sits back to level him with a fiery glare.  
  
“What the hell does that mean?”   
  
He stammers, searching for words that won’t come.     
  
“I-I just mean that-”  
  
She sighs at the pathetic sight, and he swallows down whatever he’d been planning to say. She moves to climb off him.  
  
“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters as she stands, quickly fixing her rumpled clothes and grabbing her empty wine glass before heading to the kitchen. He’s hot on her trail, nearly stumbling in his hurry to chase her down.   
  
“Paige…”  
  
She’s at the wine rack by the time he catches up, gracelessly yanking out the large bottle he’d served earlier that night.   
  
“Can we talk about this?” he begs.   
  
She huffs a dark laugh, then turns to face him with a dangerous glare.   
  
“You know, I think I will go straight from the bottle after all.”   
  
He lets out a long, exasperated exhale as she abandons her glass and begins working at the cork.   
  
“Well?” she challenges. She pops the bottle open with stunning ease. “You want to talk? Talk.”   
  
“I just meant that - _Paige,_ ” he scolds as she lifts the bottle to her lips, gulping down the wine with enthusiasm. She wipes her mouth inelegantly after she’s satisfied.   
  
“I’ll cab home. You were saying?”   
  
He breathes in deep.  
  
“Things are… things are different now.”   
  
“You mentioned.”  
  
“It’s just that, I’m still… and you’re not…”  
  
“Married, Ian. You can say it. Hell, say it three times, and I promise you, I won’t turn to dust.” 

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Be fair, Paige,” he warns.

“I am.”

“No, you're not. You know me better than that.”

“And how well do you know me, Ian?”

The attack lands. He physically recoils. She sets her jaw.

“Obviously not as well as I thought if this is where we are.”

“If this is…” he repeats, dazed. “We have never been here before, Paige. And I don't just mean right this moment. Things have changed. You’ve changed.”

She flinches, stung.

“I haven't.”

“Yes, you have. And it’s okay,” he urges softly, stepping forward to take her by the shoulders. “You’re going through a divorce. Your whole world is changing. It’s only natural that you would, too. So… so maybe I don't know you as well as I did. That doesn't mean I don't want to.”

His words settle into her with painful sincerity, but it still leaves a question lingering bitterly on her tongue. She looks up at him, eyes wide with anguish, as she asks:

“Then why don't you want this?”

“I do. I do want you,” he reassures, his hands coming up to cradle her face. “But I don't want this, what we have, to get… twisted.”

She frowns.

“Twisted?”

“Twisted. Ruined. Unhinged,” and then, with a sigh, the word he really means: “unbalanced.”

Her turn to recoil. She has to brace herself against the counter, finally discarding the wine bottle, as his meaning sinks in. He drops his hands.

“Ian. You really think I would - I’m not going to… my expectations haven't changed.”

“They might.” 

“They might _not_ ,” she urges. “I’m a grown woman. I can handle this.”

“But what if I can't?”   
  
She sighs, exasperated.

“Don't be an idiot, Ian. You love your wife, and so do I.” She takes him by the jaw with a strong hand, holding his timid gaze, letting her lips curl into a smile. “You’re going to be fine, if either of us have anything to say about it.”

He laughs, then, conceding defeat at the hands of the two bold women he’s chosen to have in his life. The sound dispels the heaviness from the room, and it almost feels like the war might be over.

But she has one last treatise.

She chews at her lip, emotion brimming within, her mind pounding against the thought of giving life to her next confession. And she could - right this second, she could easily take their truce at face value and let the sleeping giant lie. But it’s the very ease of that which tells her she owes him a little more courage, a little more honesty.

He patiently begins to clue in that something is coming - looking at her in that way of his that tells her she could confess to murder and he’d still be her champion - and she can almost forget that there’s a reason she hasn’t voiced this to anybody else. Almost, that is, save for the agonizing way it burns in her mind and surges through her chest in a battle against her well-learned sense of self-preservation.

He reaches out, his thumb brushing her cheek with impossible delicacy.

She realizes she’s crying.

“Hey. Hey, it's okay,” he reassures, “we’re okay.”

She nods.

“I know. It's just…”

Her voice falters, and she's left scrambling for words that are still fighting to come out, tears tumbling unbidden down her cheeks. She squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught.

“What is it? What's wrong?”   
  
His gentle prodding provokes one last effort to preserve her pride - maybe she _has_ changed, she thinks with some shame - and she laughs at herself.   
  
“God, this is embarrassing.”   
  
“No, having to get a stand-in for a day because you threw out your back lifting styrofoam rubble - that’s embarrassing,” he points out with a smile. She smirks at the memory. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”   
  
A deep inhale.   
  
“There is one thing that I need to ask for.”   
  
She watches as he quickly dismisses a flicker of apprehension.   
  
“Okay,” he offers bravely. Her nerves spike suddenly as the words edge towards the summit of her lips, readying themselves for the free fall, so she draws herself closer to him, grounding herself by grasping at his arms. He responds immediately, securing her to him by settling his hands at her waist, awaiting her request.   
  
Her voice cracks, weak and thin, beneath the weight of it.   
  
“Please... don’t be afraid of me.”     
  
He crumbles.   
  
“Paige, I-”   
  
“No, please,” she cuts in, raising a hand to dismiss his protest. “After tonight, I promise that I do trust you. But it’s not going to be easy. And I’ve just…”

She breathes in deep.

“I’ve spent long enough being afraid of myself these days to know that.”   
  
It’s as if she’s knocked the air from his lungs. There are no words to be found, so instead, he folds her into his arms and holds her tight against his shoulder. She lets out a long exhale, and it feels like it’s been pulled up from her toes, leaving every muscle in her body warm and soft in its wake. She dissolves into him, her own strength rendered completely unnecessary by his firm grip on her.   
  
“I’ve got you,” she suddenly hears him murmur against her ear. Then, with a swift rush of relief, she suddenly feels the press of his lips on her shoulder, followed by another soft kiss at the base of her neck. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”   
  
He whispers it like a chant, punctuating each repetition with another kiss, slowly making his way up along her neck. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling herself up and twisting a hand into his hair to press his lips firmer against her skin.   
  
She’s raw from their conversation, the pounding of her heart reverberating right down to her fingertips, the sheer relief making every inch of her skin buzz with something like newness - so everything is suddenly _so much more_ . She has to stop herself from gasping at the sensation of his lips, his beard, and god, the littlest tease of his tongue as he finally reaches the dip beneath her jaw. He stays there, nursing the little shivers he’s eliciting against any sense of control she might have thought she had. She finally lets slip a sigh as she feels his fingertips move to tease at the hem of her shirt.   
  
He brings himself close to her ear once more.   
  
“Whatever you might think, there isn’t a soul alive who believes that Paige Turco is made of glass.” And then, with a voice so low and deep it seems to vibrate right down to where heat has begun pooling desperately between her thighs: “Let me show you what you’re made of.” 

With that, he reaches down to grip her ass and effortlessly hoists her up onto the countertop, driving himself against her with such force that she knocks her head against the cabinets - but there’s no time for apologies. He seizes her face in his hands and pulls her to him in a bruising kiss, his mouth pressing hers wide open so his tongue can make its hot, slick assault on hers. He breathes her in deep as he kisses her, like a long drag from a cigarette.

_God, she's missed this_.

Suddenly his hands are beneath her shirt and snaking up her back. It’s almost a shock, the feel of someone else's skin against parts of her body that have belonged only to her for far too long - but she's all too willing to surrender, helpfully lifting her arms so he can shed her t-shirt and run his palms appreciatively over the expanse of her newly-bared torso.

It’s as he dives nose-first into the soft swell of her breasts rising above her cotton bra, happy little hums buzzing against her skin, that she registers - he’s missed this, too. So she arches to give his hungry mouth more, carding an affectionate hand through his hair as he devours her. With her free hand, she reaches back, and with a few careful tugs, releases her hair from her elastic; her hair falling in wild waves about her shoulders.

He looks up.   
  
She almost laughs at how easy a button it is to push for him, watching his eyes swiftly blacken as they pour over her tangled honey locks. She doesn’t have a chance, however - he knots his fingers deep into her hair and swallows down whatever giggles might have bubbled up with a hungry, desperate kiss. He claws at her scalp, and she bites at his lip, and soon the only sound filling that small kitchen is their sharp, gasping breaths.   
  
That is, until he grinds up powerfully against her, and - as her hands fly back instinctively to brace herself against the counter - something tumbles.  

But she can feel his hardening, heavy length brush against her even through the layers of fabric, and his fingers are finally making work of removing her bra, so she can’t be fussed to care. Her balance regained, she tucks her own fingers beneath his shirt, nails raking up along his shoulders as she lifts the soft cotton. She’s only just managed to pull the shirt over his head, flinging it into oblivion when she feels a wetness begin to spread in her jeans - far too cool against her skin to have any relation to her growing arousal. Her brain clicks back into something resembling coherent thought, and she reluctantly tears herself away from his onslaught, searching her surroundings for the cause.   
  
“Everything alright?” he asks, breathless as his fingers abandon the clasp, eyes wide with sudden worry.   
  
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine, it’s…” she manages, her breathing just as shallow as his. Then, having a look behind her, the puzzle comes together, and she laughs - _really_ laughs. It’s a rich, hearty sound that bubbles out of her brightly, stoking his confusion into smiling curiosity. She finally reaches around to reveal the culprit: a now-empty bottle of Chardonnay.      
  
With a look that is at once disbelieving and delighted, he drops his head to her shoulder, his own shoulders shaking with laughter.

An idea comes to her, then. She smirks.

Using her free hand to gather up a little of the puddle that surrounds her, she brings it close to his face, and then - with a flick, sprays him.    
  
“Ah, come on!” he whines dramatically as he jolts upright again, laughing as he wipes at the wetness on his cheek.

“Sorry,” she offers between amused giggles.

“No, you're not.”

“No, I’m not,” she agrees, grinning so widely her cheeks burn.

“Hm,” he considers, his mouth crooking mischievously to one side as he studies their situation. He steps forward once more, running his hands broadly along her thighs, feeling where the wine has soaked into her jeans. “It’s a good thing I was planning on getting you out of these anyways.”

She settles her hands at his neck, fingers toying thoughtfully with the curls of hair she finds there. She arches an eyebrow.

“Does your offer of a shower still stand?”

His eyes twinkle with mischief as he feigns consideration.

“It might.”

“Depending on…?”

“Oh, don't make me say it.”

“I think you want to,” she nudges, fighting a grin as she prepares for the inevitable.

“You’re right, I really do.”

“Well?”   
  
He clears his throat.

“Conserve water...”

“God, you're embarrassing,” she interrupts before he can finish, pulling him back in for an adoring kiss, feeling his childishly satisfied grin against her lips.

And then - with a yelp of surprise - she finds herself lifted from the counter, his hands scooped strongly under her thighs. She clings to him, ankles crossed at his back and arms wrapped around his shoulders, as he carefully starts moving them toward the stairway.

“Your back…” she warns between kisses, struggling to sound serious amid her delight at being carried like a little girl.

“I’ll blame the styrofoam.”   
  
She nuzzles into his shoulder as she laughs. He starts up the stairs, and she holds tight, her heartbeat pounding against his.

Her face hidden, the urgency of her lust subsides just enough to make room for a sudden, aching clarity of just how badly she needs him - how badly she needs his heart, now pressed so close to hers that their beats seem to overlap. How badly she needs the arms that effortlessly hold her entire weight, carefully navigating the stairway to prevent bumping into the railing. How badly she needs the hands that steady her with each jolting step...

How horribly, humiliatingly wrong she was to doubt him.

She presses a kiss against the curve of his neck, wrapping herself even more tightly around him. He shifts her weight in his arms as they reach the second floor.

The upper level of Ian’s townhouse is simple and small, only a handful of doors around what could barely be called a hallway. He takes her through the door to his immediate right - the master bedroom - and with a few long steps, rounds the corner into his ensuite.   
  
Steadying her with one arm, he reaches with the other to flick the light switch, illuminating the room in soft amber. The bathroom isn’t quite the airy, spacious oasis that hers is - its original design was to serve its assigned functions, and little else. But with walls painted rich ochre, succulent plants in handmade clay pots dotting the tiled countertop (which, helpfully, also boasts two sinks), and the faint, ever-present scent of incense - it’s haven enough for her.   
  
He finally sets her down on her feet, giving a low groan as his muscles remember themselves.   
  
“You know, maybe chivalry isn’t dead,” he remarks, “maybe it just needs a chiropractor.”   
  
“Hm,” she considers, her lips curling into a smirk. She brings her hands to his shoulders to gently massage them, then brings her whole body closer, pressing a light kiss to his collar bone. “I’m thinking…” Another soft, slow kiss planted to the curve of his neck. “Maybe we _don’t_ have to do this tonight...” She runs one hand smoothly down his bare chest, goosebumps prickling against her palm. She licks her lips, stretching up to press her mouth hotly against his ear as she whispers:

“If you’re not up for it, that is.”  
  
Her hand finds him over his jeans. She takes hold.  

“Christ, Paige…”

A low growl rumbles through his chest as she slowly, deftly caresses him over the thick fabric.

“Mm?” she hums innocently.

He shifts to take her by the jaw, sharply capturing her bottom lip between his teeth. A little sound - somewhere between a gasp and a moan - escapes her. But it's a concise little attack - she finds herself chasing his mouth as he pulls back.

He clamps his hands at her waist, firmly planting her a safe distance away. He swallows, levelling her with a purposeful stare.

“Shower,” he prompts.

“Right.”

He peels himself away from her and sets about the task of running the water. As he slides the large glass door open - she decides she’s absolutely had enough of being clothed. So in the time it takes him to fiddle with the temperature and get it just right, she’s completely discarded her bra, her damp jeans and underwear shed right down to her ankles.

He finally turns around, and his jaw drops in mock offense.

“That,” he accuses, “is _my_ job.”

She arches an eyebrow, defiantly holding his gaze as she steps out and kicks away her bottoms. He sighs his defeat.

If there were any sincerity to his protest, however, it instantly evaporates as she lithely strides towards him, fully nude. His jaw slackens, both wit and lips run dry; his gaze tracing every curve from the ground up.

This was part of why she fell for him in the first place - he had an extraordinary skill at “seeing” people. You knew at once that he didn't take anything for granted. Everything about you was meticulously filed away in his brain for safe keeping, organized alongside the full history and meaning of those things. But the real gift was that they didn't need to be explicitly revealed: as she approached him now, she knew he could see the places on her body where, last winter, she’d been gaunt and angular. She knew he could see that they'd slowly begun to soften again. She knew that he understood.

And she knew he was proud.

Similarly, albeit with more of a surface meaning, she could very clearly see the evidence that he’d been keeping up his regiment at the gym. His shoulders and arms had broadened and tightened even since the last time she'd seen him, taught muscles rippling with anticipation under his skin. He was a _presence_ , if his extraordinary charisma had ever not been enough to speak to that. Not to cross the line into “intimidating”, however - her eyes and hands drew towards the one part of him that would always be a little bit more cushioned: that darling little fifty-something belly.   
  
He was self-conscious about it, she knew - hard not to be, with the likes of Bob Morley strutting around in all his youthful hubris. But she’s made no secret of how much she adores that broad, tender expanse, with its coarse trail of lightly-greying hair. Even moreso, she loves seeing how much he adores _her_ for that appreciation. His eyes dance over her as she draws close, her fingers massaging lightly into the warmth of his skin.   
  
But just as his gaze might have turned soft, it instantly sharpens to a smouldering blackness as she hooks her fingertips into the top of his jeans, yanking his hips flush against hers. He can’t help but grind up against her; and she can feel he’s hard, but not nearly hard enough. So she sets about unbuttoning the closure, sliding both hands under the seam to push the heavy fabric downward. He swallows as she follows the action, sinking to her knees.   
  
With a gentle tug, his jeans and briefs are on the floor, and suddenly he’s fully on display.   
  
(There’s a wave of emotion that overtakes her every time she sees him, fresh with an evergreen sort of reverence, like when one is face-to-face with the original of a classic painting. That emotion is all the more overwhelming now, at eye-level, after their months apart - the man has a truly _beautiful_ cock.)     
  
As he kicks aside his bottoms, she settles back on her heels. In this proximity, she can already breathe him in; and the salt tang of his scent, all musk and masculinity, sends a shiver down her spine. Steam has already begun to drift out from behind the glass of the shower as the hot water falls to nothing but the drain - but she’s _right here_ , and god, its been far too long since she’s known his taste. So she skims her hands up along the insides of his thighs, nails grazing lightly as she draws near to the sensitive skin at the base of him. Then, there’s a sharp hiss followed by a long, shuddering groan from above as she finally takes him in her hand and brushes a featherlight kiss to the flushed head.   
  
She takes a moment just to feel him, to remember how delicious that bulky, throbbing weight feels within her grasp. She dots the length of him with worshipful, open-mouthed little kisses, smirking as she feels him twitch against her lips. Then, lifting the shaft to allow better access, she licks a long, flat stripe from base to tip before finally taking him in her mouth.   
  
“Fuck,” he curses in a strained whisper, staggering forward at the contact, forcing her to pull away to adjust her position accordingly.   
  
“Mmm,” she hums, halfways a laugh, looking up to meet his gaze while she strokes him lazily with her hand. “Miss that, did you?”   
  
He can only look down at her with a half-glazed expression of amazement - with a potent mix of indignance that she would ever think otherwise - before she’s got her lips wrapped around him once more, bobbing in time with the strokes of her hand as she feels him stiffen further and further. His eyes flutter closed, brushing his fingers through her hair as his quickened breathing slowly turns into little grunts, his cock now almost burning-hot and hard as iron against her tongue.   
  
“Paige…” she hears him groan. She smiles around him.   
  
“Mmm?”   
  
He shudders.   
  
“Ah- mmm,” he moans. He plants his feet, then, gripping the wall beside him in an effort to resist thrusting into her mouth as it works with increasing rhythm. “Not - _god -_ I don’t want to - the _water._ ”   
  
His eyes are still closed when she finally pulls away. He lets out a sigh of relief, and she smiles as she rises to her feet. It’s only as she gives him a gentle peck on the lips, reassuring him that she’s far enough away from danger, that his eyes finally open. She smiles.   
  
“My brave environmentalist,” she murmurs affectionately.   
  
“And homeowner, too,” he points out, finally regaining his breath as she takes his hand and slides the door open, stepping inside. “My hydro bills-”   
  
“Oh, shut up and get in here.”  

With that, she yanks him inside, nearly causing him to slip on the wet surface. But he composes himself in record time, sliding the door closed behind him and gathering her fiercely into his arms. The water streaming down all around them now, their dampened skin awakens a whole new palette of sensation. Every touch feels as raw and vibrant as if it were the first time, and the craving for more quickly consumes them. The warmth of the steam surrounding them matches that of their panting breaths between kisses, mouths and tongues determined to work that heat into an inferno.  
  
She’s acutely aware of how his cock presses hotly up against her stomach, his hands finding the curve of her ass and gripping hard to pull her tighter against him. She gasps as the movement causes him to brush ever so lightly against her clit, sending a shock of electricity through her body.   
  
“Oh god. Please, Ian…” she begs.   
  
“Hmm?”

“I want-”   
  
Her request is cut short as he grinds up against her once more, capturing her lips in the midst of the movement. She swallows deeply, then tries again, her hand falling toward the hot, throbbing shaft between them.   
  
“I want you to fuck me. Please.”   
  
She almost has to choke it out, but she manages; and she eyes him with a wanton gaze through heavy lashes as she watches for his response. As she moves to guide him toward her, however, he stills her hand with his own.   
  
“No.”   
  
She recoils somewhat, eyes flashing open to try to read his expression.   
  
“No?”   
  
“No. I’m not going to fuck you.”

She’s about ready to deck him in his stupid, handsome, cock-teasing face. And she doesn’t even have a cock to tease.   
  
“So help me, you have got to give a girl more of a head’s up--”   
  
Suddenly, however, she’s being spun around, his strong hands quick to steady her as she falls back against him. Then, they’re clutching possessively at her breasts, involuntary sighs pulled from deep within her as his thumbs brush shivery circles around her stiffening nipples. She feels the tickle of his beard as his lips draw close to her ear.   
  
“I’m not going to fuck you, Paige,” he explains, with a soft, low voice that sends tremors down to her toes, “because I want you to know, beyond knowing, that you are so much more than just a good fuck.”

He follows this with a  sharp tug at her earlobe.

“Although it should be noted - you definitely are that.”   
  
She would roll her eyes at this - _always the romantic -_ but she doesn’t have time, as suddenly one hand has slidden down her stomach and nestled between her thighs. She melts into him, reaching back to knot her fingers into the wet tendrils of his hair as he methodically massages her swollen clit.

She lets her eyes close, white-hot sensation beginning to spread from where his deliciously-calloused fingertips are stirring her into divine madness. His movements are slick, she’s so soaked; smooth circles effortlessly alternating with whole-handed caresses.

His other hand runs a firm line down the curve of her throat, stretching out the lean muscle there, then sweeps downward to firmly massage the tighter, denser muscles in her shoulders and back. She’s come to consider this his signature: at Annie’s prompting, during their  second hiatus, he’d taken a class on traditional Hawaiian Lomi Lomi massage therapy, and returned to Vancouver with the excitement and pride of a kid with a new toy. The sumptuous contrast of being worked both up and down at the same time, they’d learned, opened her up to an obliterating kind of release like she’d _never_ experienced before; as all-consuming as if she'd fallen into the center of the sun.

(She should really get the woman a damn fruit basket sometime.)

So she enthusiastically dissolves into it, tension evaporating from every inch of her body as he works it through. Her mollified body against the solidness and strength of his feels like water on a rock, and she thinks she could just about slip away down the drain. But then the hand between her legs slides in deeper, two long, dextrous fingers crooking upward, and her body blooms with sensation. As he slowly starts pumping those fingers inside her, his thumb pressing against her clit, it’s like he’s planted landmines in the midst of every muscle he’s touched. Little tremors begin to course through her stomach, her spine, her shoulders, and her thighs as each one erupts with pleasure, and her soft moans swiftly blossom into cries.  
  
Her hand at the back of his neck clings desperately, fingers digging deep in her effort to remain upright while she’s overtaken like this. He lets her pull him hard against her, his face buried deep against her neck. She feels his teeth nip sharply at the sensitive skin behind her ear, the sting of pain-pleasure shooting through her like lightning. Her heightening cries are rendering him insatiable, it seems, as she feels him devour her with a chaotic trail of kisses and bites, open-mouthed and almost violent, along her neck and shoulder. His fingers pump faster. They curl inward, laying siege to their target with unerring efficiency.   
  
“Oh, god. _Oh, god_ .”   
  
“Yes, baby. Let go.”   
  
She’s loath to disobey, especially when his own self-control seems to be diminishing - he’s pressed flush against her, hips driving his cock up along the small of her back with uncontrolled, involuntary thrusts.   
  
“It’s okay,” he breathes against her ear, wrapping a protective arm around her stomach. “I’ve got you. Let go.”   
  
His fingers hook inside her with three strong, deliberate thrusts.    

She lets go.

As expected, her orgasm crashes through her with the sheer force of a tsunami. Her knees buckle under the power of it, threatening collapse, but he keeps true to his promise, holding on tight. She surrenders her whole weight into his arms, and slowly, carefully, he begins to let them both sink to the floor.

They stay there for a long moment in that stillness, letting the water pour over them. Coming down, every nerve in her body sings sweetly with the reverberations of her release. They catch their breath in tandem, his chest heaving against her back. She’s folded up as small as she can possibly be, feet tucked under, bowing her head to the floor - but with his body covering hers like a shield, his arm still wrapped around her stomach, she feels as bold and brave as a giant. She takes the hand he’s wrapped around her and laces her fingers into his.

“Okay,” she breathes, “you’ve made your point.”

She brings his knuckles to her lips and presses a tender kiss to them.

“But now, it's my turn.”

With that, she brings herself around to completely face him. The water does little to soften the ceramic floor against her knees, but she decides he’s done quite enough heavy lifting for one day - the floor will have to do. With a gentle nudge, she gets him to sit with his back leaning against the wall, toned footballer’s legs stretching out on either side of her as she kneels. He watches hungrily as she runs her hands down his chest, settling at his hips. Her eyes fall to his swollen, nearly-purple cock, and she has to chuckle.

“You are such an idiot,” she remarks, shaking her head. He winces - actually winces - as she takes the painfully-sensitive shaft into her hands and begins to stroke him with delicate caresses.

“Mm,” he sighs. He reaches to brush a few wet locks of hair out of her face. “Only when you’re around.”

“Debatable,” she smiles with a wink of skepticism as she carefully straddles his waist. “But I’ll take it.”  

She kisses him as she sinks down, drinking in the gutteral groan that emerges from him as a result. She has to ease onto him - always does, even as slick as she is now; her small body will simply  never adjust to that kind of girth. But thankfully, she’s learned that he quite enjoys the slow, exquisite torment of feeling - no, _savouring -_ each fraction of an inch of her opening up to take him in. So she makes a show of it, both hands tilting his chin upwards so he can watch her face; how absolutely conquered she is by that powerful, intensifying pressure.

But it’s him that’s conquered as she finally has him fully inside her. She smiles as his eyes flutter closed, his head falling back against the tiled wall with a heavy groan as he fills her completely.  She threads her fingers through his water-slicked hair, gently guiding him back to her, then slowly begins to ride him. Her hips curl against him in slow, deliberate gyrations, savouring the extra friction afforded to them by their dampened skin.

She can feel him in every part of her body as though he pulsed through her veins - but it’s still not enough, so she gathers him closer, crushing her lips against his with bruising force as she picks up the pace. Her tongue presses hotly into his mouth, and he is happy to oblige, his own tongue wild and unrelenting amidst the tangle of tastes. His hands fall to her ass, gripping at the supple flesh to pull her closer against him.

He thrusts up to meet her as much as he can, the sharp slaps of their collisions reverberating throughout the small space. It serves as percussion to their harmonizing gasps and moans; hers rising to high-pitched, girlish panting as his descends to deep, ravenous grunts. Suddenly his lips fall from hers and land at her breasts, ravaging them with teeth and tongue and the shivery whisper of that beard.

She holds him tight against her, gripping at his shoulders and hair, as once again she feels pressure begin to coil tightly within. She’s close. Judging by the graceless method of his consumption, mouth clumsy and aimless against her skin, he is, too.

But damn it all to hell if that bastard makes her come first. Again.

As predictable as clockwork, she feels one of his hands round the curve of her hip, his thumb stretching down towards where they connect. But she’s two steps ahead, and in a single fluid movement, swift as the wind, she’s caught him by the wrist and pinned it to the wall above his head.   
  
He’s stunned for all of half a second before she watches the more mischievous corner of his mouth quirk upward.

His other arm obediently rises to join its counterpart, both wrists clutched firmly in the vice-like grip of a single feminine hand while she rides him as hard and deep as her body will allow. She can feel a burning in her thighs from the frantic exertion but it’s a small tradeoff for the complete surrender in his eyes, dizzy with the pleasure that’s quickly overwhelming him. They close as he draws near his peak, and his body tenses, muscular arms straining against her hold. His knees come up, heels digging into the floor to give him the leverage to thrust into her like he wants to; but with her other hand planted commandingly at the center of his chest, he’s completely at the mercy of her chosen rhythm.  
  
So she drops her pace, suddenly opting for long, serpentine rolls of her hips to draw out the fullness of sensation that will drive his release. She bites her lip to stave off her own orgasm as her whole body is blitzed with crackling electricity, the tension and searing pressure of him inside her tearing her apart at the seams.

But this is hers to give him, damnit. Just a little longer…

She pulls herself flush against him, her whole body pressed with wet skin against his. Every one of his stuttered gasps reverberates from his chest to hers. She buries her face in the tangle of his hair, her free hand now clinging to his neck so desperately she feels skin break beneath her nails. She’s so close now that if she doesn’t let go in the next millisecond she thinks she might just go blind.   
  
“You filthy bast--”   
  
And there it is.   
  
A hitched groan and a deep, shuddering sigh. His hips snapping up sharply against hers.   
  
That powerful rush of thick warmth within.   
  
_Finally_.

She grinds herself harder against him, drawing out every last pulse of his release as it trickles down her thigh and towards the drain. Her own control begins to fail her, and she releases her grip on his wrists so she can fully let the dam break and surrender to the oncoming tidal wave. His arms are instantly around her. She comes with a cry, muffled with her mouth against his skin, and clings to him as hard as she can, convulsions wracking violently through her.  

They seem to fuse into each other as they come down, every muscle soft and pliant and buzzing with the aftershocks of their respective orgasms.

He comes to first.

“Okay, you’re right,” he breathes, his lips the only muscles moving amid their tangled, collapsed position. “I am an idiot.”

She laughs, a full-body laugh that bubbles up from her toes and catches him chuckling, too. Slowly, carefully, she unburies herself from his shoulder to sit up, tenderly sliding his softened cock out of her with a sated sigh.

“You need to treat this poor thing better or one day it’ll fall right off,” she comments with a smirk, slowly unstraddling him and kneeling at his side.  

“Pack its bags and head for the big city?”   
  
“Somewhere it can be appreciated, yes.”   
  
He smiles at her through the daze of his afterglow, soft and radiant with affection. She returns the smile, pulling him in for a light, gentle kiss. She stays close.   
  
“Thank you,” she whispers, suddenly serious.   
  
He smooths back her dripping-wet hair, eyes dancing over the features of her face as if deciding which was his favourite. His thumb brushes over the flush in her cheeks.   
  
“Thank _you,”_ he replies, “for not letting me give this up.”   
  
She swallows down the sudden tightness in her throat.   
  
“I love you,” is all she can say.   
  
“I love you, too,” he returns, and she knows he means it.

She folds herself into his waiting arms once more. He nuzzles into her hair as he holds her.   
  
She feels him smirk.   
  
“Now, about that setting spray…”

 

\---

 

When she wakes the next morning, sunlight pouring in through the vast front window of his master bedroom to warm her face, she can hear music.

It’s low, muffled as it rises from the main floor; but she smiles as she recognizes the wistful summeriness of - who does this, again? Oh, right. The Beach Boys. Or so she remembers him saying.

And then there it is again, that easy tenor of his, carelessly humming along. Those more musical sounds are accompanied by that of a low, steady sizzle; which brings with it the comforting aroma of cooking grease. She breathes it in deep, blissfully curling into the covers and pulling the cloud-like duvet tighter against her. The cotton is exquisitely light and soft on her skin, which is almost entirely still bare - save for where the thin fabric of her favourite borrowed t-shirt manages to cover. Her pillow is cool against her cheek from her hair still being a bit damp, not having bothered to dry it after the night’s exercises. With a groan, she realizes that although the smell of the setting spray is gone, now she’s stuck smelling like his offbrand 2-in-1 shampoo-and-conditioner (a closely-guarded secret and, frankly, miracle of science). She's suddenly thankful for the fact the Hair and Makeup department had, naturally, been one of the first to clue in on the situation, so no further explanation would be needed.

All the same.

As she allows herself a languid stretch, she notices the chair in the far corner - or rather, its contents. Washed, dried, and pristinely folded is a neat stack of her clothing; she smiles at the thought of him hunting down and accounting for each piece. She hadn't even felt him rise, however early that must have been.   
  
She eyes the alarm clock on his nightstand. Seven o’clock.   
  
He’ll be up soon to make sure she’s got enough time to get ready, she knows; so she allows herself to indulge in the coziness of the moment for a while longer...   
  
And the ease of it.   
  
It settles into her bones, which feel nearly as light and loose as they did in her youth. She wonders that they should feel this way, with all she’d put them through with the evening’s events. But then, stretching once more and feeling every muscle awaken with the vibrance of rested rejuvenation, it begins to come to her:   
  
Sometimes the work you put in is what makes the easy things worthwhile.   
  
The music from downstairs comes to an end; and she hears the pan get moved elsewhere to cool,  the sizzle quickly coming to a stop. Then, there’s the steady creak of his footsteps as he climbs the stairs.   
  
She smiles, and she thinks:

She has never been more ready to get to work.


End file.
